


Keep A Secret (Or how Q is secretly a klutz sometimes)

by a_xmasmurder



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Bit of a fluff fic, Clumsiness, Embarrassment, Gen, I'm so mean to Q, Or Is It?, Q's having a bad day again, Unrequited Crush, glue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things happen, sometimes. </p><p>Sometimes, you trip and fall on your ass. Sometimes, you slip up and cut your finger open on a tin can. And you still don't know how you managed to set your shoe on fire on that camping trip. </p><p>Quartermasters never do things by halves. They tend to glue themselves to tables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep A Secret (Or how Q is secretly a klutz sometimes)

**Author's Note:**

> *Sets this fic down and steps away, holding her hands up and shaking her head*

“Three thirteen in the bloody morning, what am I even doing here, still?” Q grumbled, then looked away from the white-faced clock on the wall above his head, continuing to mutter darkly to himself. “Finishing this bloody build, that’s what I’m doing. And if it weren’t for a badly timed emergency on 004’s assignment and a minor explosion in Chemlab, I’d be done with this thing and home, wrapped in blankets and watching bad telly…”

He peered through the jeweler’s magnifying glass on his workbench and manouvered the tiny bit of plastic onto the other tiny bit of plastic, then used the clamps to hold them still. He reached for the tube of superglue and a needle and poked the cap through the metal seal.

_CRASH **bang** rattle- **crASH**!_

He jerked to his feet and spun around, fists up and ready to defend himself from whomever was hiding there, waiting for him to be distracted enough to... _Oh._

Nothing was there to attack him.

He felt himself blush a little at the agent-worthy overreaction. He listened to the silence that nearly deafened him after the loud crash, waiting for something or someone to pop out of the darkness. After a moment, he relaxed. There were no mice or rats or cats in the room - he’d made certain that rodents wouldn’t be able to breach the room and get at all his wiring. There wasn’t even a wayward tech looking for pieces of a project or a field agent sneaking up on him.

He let out a sigh and shook his head at his own jumpiness. “Must have been an off-balance shelf. Oh, well. I’ll have the maintenance crew look into it. Perhaps new wall hooks, or strap them to the walls with heavy-duty aluminium strips...” He pushed one hand to the table and relaxed his hip next to it. Hell, it felt good to stand. He must have been sitting for hours - days, even. There wasn’t any natural light down here, and even he knew how he could become so engrossed in a project that he forgot to function like a normal human being.

_Why is my hand burning?_

Q scowled and ran a mental checklist. He hadn’t hit his hand or broken any of the fine bones within, nor had he stabbed himself with a tool recently. No, it was his skin. His skin stung in a strange way and very uncomfortable way. He looked down at his hand and cocked his head. It didn’t look any different. The crumpled tube of superglue hung from the skin between his middle and ring finger, and the acrid smell of adhesive filled the small space. _Hm. Crumpled. Wasn’t it full before?_

Later, Q would blame it on the lack of caffeine in his system or perhaps the overabundance of it for his lapse of quick-mindedness. He’d use the excuse that he normally didn’t have to use store-bought tubes of glue because he made his own and his were never this bloody finicky. He’d even try to say that he was distracted. None of it mattered, because it took him exactly enough time for the adhesive to set and effectively trap his hand to the plastic table top to realise that the reason his hand was on fire was because...well, he was glued to a table.

“Oh, shit.” Q licked his lips. “This isn’t good.” He tried to pull his hand away gently, because he was _known_ for his coolness under pressure. He wasn’t the type to ‘freak out’ over things, especially things that are barely ripples in the larger puddle of muck that was his job. So he slowly moved his elbow, twisted his shoulder...and nothing. His hand was not moving. He grabbed the tube from his fingers with his other hand, yanking quickly to avoid as much damage and pain as possible. He looked at it and sighed. “And of course I had to get the really good stuff. The sort that doesn’t so much glue things together as much as it binds them on a molecular level and hurts horribly. Ouch.” He winced and tried to pull his hand away again to no avail. “I wonder if the pain means that my atoms and cells are binding with the material in this table.”

He cocked his head and turned the tube in his free hand. “Should have checked to see what solvent works to...un-adhere myself from things before working on this.” He tried to put the tube down, but it stuck to his fingers. “Damned thing. Get off me.” He shook his hand, and splattered himself with glue that was still trapped in it. “Shit! Damn it, get. Off. Me!” Finally, he wiped his hand against his work trousers, trying to pry the tube off. It worked, but it only got stuck to the fabric.

Q rolled his eyes, then set his mind to finding something to pry his hand off of the worktop. The first thing he spotted was his flathead screwdriver. “That should work.” He grabbed it like an icepick and tried to wedge it beneath his trapped hand with only pain and a little blood to show for it. He pushed his thigh against the table for leverage and tried again, only to score a gouge across the top of his hand when the tip of the screwdriver slipped.

“Mother -!” Q bit off the rest of the curse and dropped the tool.

Well...he tried to drop the tool.

“Oh, bugger me…” He moaned and shook his other hand a couple times to try to dislodge the screwdriver, only to realise that his thigh was now burning. He looked down with a sinking sensation in his gut. Sure enough, his leg was attached to the table as well.

“I’m a complete dunce.” He dropped his head back and groaned. “Utter prat. Idiot. I’m a slug, a fat lazy slug. I’m never working with glue ever again. I’m soldering everything from now on, never dealing with glue again. Ever.” His head sprang up when his mobile started to buzz just out of his reach. “Shit, shit shit. My work one. Damn it, if I don’t answer that...oh. Oh! That’s perfect, actually.” He grinned and waited for it to go to voicemail.

“Hello. Obviously, I’m in trouble. Leave a message or at least an ETA after the beep. Thank you.”

The phone chirruped happily.

A gruff voice barked out “Quartermaster?” and nothing else. The call ended.

Q’s grin fell. “No, no no. No.”

That voice belonged to James Bond, the absolute _last_ person Q wanted to see like this. “Fuck. Shit, buggering hell-baskets.” There went any possibility of him ever realising his dream of impressing one of the most dangerous men - no, _the_ most dangerous man - he knew.

“Damn it.” He closed his eyes and groaned, then waited for the inevitable to happen. They’d track the mobile signal to his out-of-the-way little private workshop, and Bond would be there shortly to lose his mind in mirth at Q’s expense. _This is not going to be fun for me._

 

 

It only took ten minutes, which could be either a new record or a really lousy reaction time, Q couldn’t figure out which. The door cracked open, barely letting in the soft light from the hall beyond.

To avoid any miscommunication and bullet holes in important projects or his body, Q immediately started talking, reassuring the agent that he was not in mortal danger. “James, it’s alright. I’m not in dire trouble. I just…” Q searched for something to say, some way to play this act of stupidity off. He came up with nothing. “... I’m stuck.”

There wasn’t much of a sound, but the movement of shadow in the light told him that Bond was holstering his Walther. Good thing, that. Q’d rather not get shot on top of this mortification. “How so, stuck? Are you hurt?” The door opened the rest of the way, and Q squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for the most humiliating thing to happen to him since college.

“No, not yet.”

Silence. An intake of breath as a brilliant Double O brain got to work analysing the situation and coming up with, if not a solution, then an explanation. Q refused to open his eyes. _He’s going to start laughing any minute now._

“Quartermaster?” The word was delivered on the calmest tone of voice Q had ever heard out of James Bond. The man was usually either seductive, raging, or fatally bored. Never… curious.

Q winced. “Yes, Double O Seven?”

“Are you glued to the table?”

“...yes.” He opened his eyes to stare at James, who’d stopped dead in the middle of the room, arms and legs akimbo, completely relaxed and alert with a searching expression on his face. Q hated himself and Bond at that moment. “As you can well see, I’m stuck to the table with adhesive that I apparently didn’t see the need to have a solvent on hand for since I’m not normally clumsy.” _Which would imply that I’m clumsy now, good job Q, you complete asshat. Why not dig the hole deeper?_ “I was spooked and the tube slipped.” _Brilliant. ‘Spooked’. Good work. Now he thinks you are a scaredy-cat_ and _a klutz._

Bond’s eyebrows rose slowly as he took in the tableau. “Spooked.”

“Yes. Something fell behind me, something big, and it - the glue - slipped.” Q knew he sounded snappish and irritated, but god damn it, he was stuck to a bloody workbench and James was obviously trying really hard not to laugh.

Wasn’t he?

Bond kept watching him, and Q couldn’t really tell if he was going to laugh, actually. The man had one hell of a poker face. “You aren’t in a position that causes you pain, correct?”

Q rolled his eyes. “Do I sound like I’m in pain?”

In the light of the hall and the room, Q could see Bond’s throat move as he swallowed. “Oh, come now. There’s no reason to be all churlish. I’m asking a relevant question.”

“An obvious one that you’d be able to answer yourself if you had eyes in your head and your ears were open!” _Okay, now you are just being a cunt, Q._ “Sorry. I’m just…”

James held up his hand, placatingly. “Frustrated. Yes. And you’re right, you are fine. I’m going to make certain that there isn’t anyone hiding in here, if that is alright with you?” He didn’t wait for an answer before he moved to the darker part of the room, where the noise from earlier originated. Q turned his head to watch Bond move through the shadows, alert and focused, and tried really really hard not to mentally kick himself in the arse for being one to Bond. _It’s not like it’s his fault you’re in this position. Stop being a prick to him._ Q sighed again and tried to calm down.

A minute later, Bond returned. He was holding a toolbox. “This is what fell.” Then he paused. “Well, actually, the whole shelf did, but this is what I recovered.” He dropped it to the floor, and it made much the same noise. “There. Is that the racket you heard?”

Q nodded, feeling even more stupid, and Bond smirked. “Alright, then. Mystery solved. Now, onto the ‘let’s get the Quartermaster unstuck’ part of the story.” He cocked his head. “The tube of glue is on your trousers.”

Q couldn’t help himself this time. His lips curled into a smirk that matched Bond’s. “And you have a flair for the obvious, don’t you?”

“At least I noticed it, this time.” The answering smile lit up Q’s world like no other, which only made the humiliation worse. He ducked his head and winced again as Bond moved forward and plucked at the tube. “Seems to be attached to a tear in your trousers. I’m going to take it off.” He pulled the tube from the fabric. Unfortunately, his skin was attached to the fabric that was attached to the tube, so when Bond pulled his hand away, skin came with it. Q let out a yelp, and Bond dropped the tube.

Well...he tried to drop it.

“Damn.” He shook his hand a few times. “Seems there’s still some left after you decided to glue all the things.” Bond held up his hand and its new accessory. “And it stings.” Suddenly, his head rocked up and he looked at Q with concern. “Jesus, and with your skin being…” He trailed off, his brows knitting together and a worried cloud crossed the blue depths of his eyes.

“Being?” Q scrunched his nose, but Bond didn’t elaborate. He blew a breath out instead and pinched the bit of tube that didn’t have glue on it and ripped it off his hand, barely flinching. The skin that had been attached pinked immediately, and Q could see some droplets of blood in the work-desk light.

“I’m going to hurry, alright? I’ve got to get you somewhere we can get this stuff off you, or at least get the majority off so that we can get to Medical.”

“No hurry.” Q winced and prodded the raw spot on his thigh with his partially free hand. It wasn’t quite bleeding, but it was threatening to. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bond snorted and looked at the back of the tube, trying to read it through the crumpled metal. “It says nothing here about removal, but if I can remember, I think…” He fell into silence for a moment. “Yes. Acetone. Straight acetone should work. Do you have any around here?”

Q scowled, very perturbed that he hadn’t thought of that straight off. “Yes. Second shelf on the right.” He nodded in the general direction, and Bond smiled at him. Q’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it showed. _He’s not being patronising, just helpful. In fact, he’s not teasing me at all for this._ He watched Bond grab the bottle off the shelf with no small amount of fascination, then watched as he slipped a fabric square out of his jacket pocket and soaked it with the acetone before pouring some out onto the table.

“That should work. Got a screwdriver or something flat…” Bond trailed off as he looked at Q’s hand, the one with the screwdriver attached to it. He huffed out the first laugh since the ordeal began, and it wasn’t at Q. “Maybe you should do the prying.”

Q rolled his eyes and tried to laugh, too, though it didn’t quite come out. “Sure. Why not, since I’ve already got the tool in hand?” He gripped the screwdriver again and went to work. It was a bit easier and a whole lot more painful as the acetone found every tiny scrape and gouge on Q’s skin. He couldn’t help the curses that rolled off his tongue. “Jesus fucking Christ, that hurts!”

Bond winced, and pulled the cloth away. “Sorry.” And in the next breath - “You’ve cut yourself.”

“Again with the obvious.” Q blew out a breath. “And nothing to be sorry about - ow - here. You didn’t do it to me, this is all my fault.”

“Accidents happen.” Bond pressed the kerchief back to Q’s hand. “Not that big of a deal.”

“This is a bit bigger than an accident, Bond.” _Not a big deal to you, perhaps._ Q pushed the pissy thought away from his speech centre. _No need to say that out loud._ “I don’t _like_ clumsy. I don’t like _being_ clumsy.”

“I’m sure you can forgive yourself for this one.” Bond ran gentle fingers over the back of Q’s hand where dried and gelled blood masked the nasty cut. Q hissed a breath through his teeth and continued to pry at the rest of his hand. Most of his palm was free, now he just had to get the rest…

After a few more minutes of judicious applications of acetone and cursing and prodding and stabbing at the table and his hand with the screwdriver, Q gave up. The rest of his hand just wasn’t coming up. He shook his hand to rid himself of the tool, though he already knew it wouldn’t work. “Damn it.” He scowled up at Bond, who pressed his lips together and gave him a half-hearted ‘you tried’ look. He turned his scowl back down to his hand, reddened and sore and bleeding in a few places and stinging in a lot more, and sighed. “To hell with it.” He planted his feet and with a grunt he yanked his arm hard.

His hand came loose.

Most of the skin of his palm stayed.

The sudden, agonising pain dropped Q to a sitting position on the floor with a shout, and he cradled his much bloodier hand. Bond was at his side in an instant, warm hands on his shoulders and knee pressed into his hip.

“Why did you do that?” Oh, _now_ Bond was displaying an emotion other than calm acceptance. Unfortunately, it was anger, and he was angry at Q. _Not the endgame I wanted._

Q groaned. “Because I’m tired of standing? God, that hurts. It hurts so bad. Why did I do that? Fuck. I hate this, I hate my life, I hate glue, I’ve never hurt myself with a soldering iron, why can’t I just stop being an idiot for once?” He didn’t care that tears were streaming down his cheeks...actually, no, that was a lie. He _did_ care. He cared that he was crying in front of his crush, he was showing weakness in front of an agent of the Queen, and he was in so much trouble. He leaned into Bond’s grasp and rested his head against Bond’s shoulder - and yeah, that was a really bad idea. Not smart. Really not good. And of all the reactions Q expected - recoil, revulsion, laughter, pity, ridicule - Bond did the one thing Q didn’t expect. He pulled Q closer and held him.

“It’ll be alright. Should I call Medical, or do you think you can get there under your own power?”

 _Oh. Great. He thinks I’m a weakling now. Oh happy day._ “It’s not like I got shot, James.”

“No, but it’s a large open wound on a sensitive part of your hand, and that sort of pain is not my idea of a fun time. It’s intense and can cause a bit of a brain fog. Makes it hard to focus.” Bond shifted under Q’s weight as Q looked up at him in awe. “It’s like a burn, only bloodier. And you are bleeding a lot...” He dragged the last word out as he pulled off his tie and shrugged out of his jacket. “Hold on.” And before Q knew it, Bond was taking off his fancy silk button-down and folding it into a pad.

“Oh, no. No. Absolutely not, that shirt cost more than my car, James no -” Q sputtered helplessly as Bond pressed his aching hand onto the shirt and wrapped his tie around the whole thing, making it tight. “Ugh, no, this isn’t good. Stop being so…”

“Worried? Helpful? Concerned that you are going to bleed out?” Bond chuckled and returned to - good Lord, he was snuggling Q to his bloody chest. _Oh God._

“Not going to die, James.” Q could no longer bother with it. He relaxed as much as he could into Bond’s embrace and stopped trying to not feel what he was feeling at the moment, which was safe and secure and mortified and...grateful. Grateful for a lot of things. For Bond helping him; for Bond coming straight away; and for being an understanding, kind, not asshole-ish grown man about things. For Bond just...being there. “Thank you, by the way.”

“You are welcome.”

Q paused for a moment. “James, do me one favour.”

“Anything.” And of course, Bond being who he was, there was a whole mess of innuendo in that one word. Q focused on none of it.

“Keep this a secret? Don’t...tell anyone about this?” Bond stiffened slightly behind him, and Q scrambled to elaborate because yes, this was a situation that needed the clarification, especially if Bond was feeling a little skittish about it. “About the glue. Tell them I got into a fight with a bear or an alien or Mitt Romney if you must, but just don’t tell them you found me attached to a bloody table.”

Bond relaxed again. “I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone, Quartermaster.”

  
  
  



End file.
